“Is everything all right?” His voice startles me from my thoughts. When I look up, he’s watching me with those impossibly golden eyes, his hood slightly flared in what might be concern—or maybe it’s just plain old impatience at my inefficiency. “You seem troubled.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, closing the ledger before he can see which pages I’ve been studying. My voice comes out harder than intended. “Just tired. Long week.”
His head sways as he studies me, his tongue flicking out. He seems like he wants to press—wants to challenge just how “fine” I really am, but then he simply nods. “Of course. Would you like to head home? I can finish up from here.”
“Yeah.” I grab my purse off the workbench, needing to escape before I say something stupid. Something like ‘Why am I different?’ or ‘Why don’t I deserve your kindness too?’
“Have a pleasant weekend, Aubrey,” he says softly as I head for the door.
“Sure,” I mutter, not looking back. “I’ll try.”
The haunted music box in the corner starts playing what sounds suspiciously like a sad love song as I leave. And for once, Sundar doesn’t silence it.
The night air hits my face, thick with Houston humidity, but I barely notice. I’m too busy trying to convince myself that the ache in my chest is just disappointment in my own stupid fantasies, not actual heartbreak.
After all, you can’t lose what was never yours to begin with.
Chapter 6
Professional Distance
Sundar
The weekend drags endlessly.I reorganize display cases, arrange new acquisitions, and pretend I’m not counting the hours until Monday. A well-loved guitar needs its strings replaced—simple work that I usually find calming, but tonight my fingers feel clumsy. I’m distracted by the lingering traces ofAubrey’s scent, by the memory of how sharply it had changed on Friday evening.
One moment, she was all warm sunshine and coffee, with that hint of determination that draws me in whether she means to or not. The next… something soured. Hurt bloomed beneath her usual brightness, and the shift had my scales bristling with the need to fix whatever caused such distress.
But what was it?
I’ve replayed our interactions countless times, examining each moment like I would a precious artifact.
There was the morning’s lesson in magical detection, when my treacherous tail betrayed me by seeking her warmth. There was Mrs. Brindlewood’s visit, with her embarrassing stories and knowing looks. Then came the quiet routine of closing time, until…
My tail knocks over a rack of vintage albums, sending them sliding across the floor. The sound echoes through the empty shop, emphasizing the hollow silence that’s been my companion for centuries. A silence that hadn’t bothered me until recently.
I retrieve the fallen records, carefully checking their condition. Most are fine, though a Beatles album cover has acquired a slight bend that would horrify any serious collector. I smooth it carefully, remembering how Aubrey’s eyes had lit up last week when she discovered it in a new acquisition lot.
She had told me she thought it could make a good gift for her father come Christmas time. I had mentally made a note not to sell it for that reason.
Now I catch myself arranging the album where she’ll see it Monday morning, then immediately feel foolish. When did I become this creature who arranges displays hoping to earn a smile? I’m ancient, powerful, a former guardian of sacred relics. I should be above such… such…
Fine. Perhaps I’m not above it. Perhaps I haven’t been “above” anything since the moment she walked into my shop, all nervous determination and freckles.
The admission doesn’t help. If anything, it makes the weekend stretch longer, each hour marked by increasingly ridiculous attempts to keep busy. I organize the jewelry cases by metal content instead of value. I update the electronic inventory system I usually avoid. I even tackle polishing that antique typewriter that likes to add snarky commentary in the margins of whatever’s being written.
None of it helps. My thoughts keep circling back to Friday evening, to that sharp change in her scent. To how quickly she’d left, barely meeting my eyes.
By Sunday night, I’ve worked myself into what Mrs. Brindlewood would definitely call a “state.” My tail won’t stop moving. I’ve reorganized the same display three times. I’ve even caught myself practicing conversations in my head, trying to find the right words to ask what went wrong without seeming… whatever I am right now.
Desperate? Concerned? Ridiculously fixated on a human who probably just had a bad day?
When Monday finally arrives, I’m behind the counter hours early, pretending to review the ledger while actually monitoring every sound from the street. My tongue keeps flicking out to taste the air, seeking her familiar scent. The pages of meticulous records are a blur before my eyes, and I realize I’ve been staring at the same entry for twenty minutes.
At precisely 7:55, I hear her footsteps approaching. My entire body goes still, every scale attuned to her presence. But something’s off.
She enters a moment later, perfectly put together in practical work clothes, her hair neatly tied back. The sight of her makes my tail want to curl—which is precisely the kind of reaction I should be suppressing, given that I’m the one who manipulated this whole situation.
“Good morning,” Aubrey says. Her tone, it’s professional. Distant. As if we’re suddenly operating on purely business terms—which, technically, is exactly what I claimed I wanted when I crafted this arrangement.
